Defining The Abstract

If I could measure my life

in the breaths I breathed

or the books I read

or the needs I need

how accurate can such a sampling be

when none adds up to be the ideas inside me

all my intentions

well-honed as they may be

I don’t know where they can lead

still, I walk on this side of the road

I can even hitch a ride if I feel so bold

but all these words poured from a look I gave every book

on my shelf

wondering what they say about myself

the ones I’ve read

the ones I haven’t

ideas I don’t even know exist sit waiting to happen

on something so thin as paper

and so big as another writer offering their charity

and I’m too full of myself to eat

no one is too busy to do anything

this is the great lie we tell ourselves

knowing full well we can do whatever we want when we chose

and there is a balance between what we take and what we lose

like this poem got tied to rhyme

where I need to find a match to every line every time

and how much has that tied my mind to thinking rhythm before meaning

are we suffering from this self-imposed sentence being

meaning our own grammar and syntax is a sin tax that we must pay

just to get through the day

when our imaginations are at play

we confine them

draw lines for them

and give titles to abstract imagery

just so we know what to say

when someone says they believe this whole universe is a dream of Vishnu

sure, you

want to

say to

them they may be dreaming themselves

but how do you know

when the voices inside your head

only speak to you

and to you

alone?

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